Good night and good luck

Unbelievable. They did it. These kids did it!

I was wary even after Yuvraj’s blitz. Even when that Moy-Danab Matt Hayden was carving air, ball after ball from Sree. Then that over from Joginder Sharma when Matt and Symonds started connecting, I thought it was the beginning of the end and started the drive home. When I switched on the telly at home, surprise! Oz needed 22 to win from 5 balls!

That catch by Yuvraj (and his caveman roar). Two wickets in the over for Joginder Sharma. Beating Australia in a semi-final. After Pakistan, England and South Africa. When do we wake up?

Even before we won, this match was a special experience. Yuvraj batted like .. well, for me, only one man is The King. Isaac Vivian Alexander, Smokin’ Joe, the Ultimate Blastah. Tonight Yuvraj laid a finger on his throne. It wasn’t about the sixes, not the pull with which he opened his account, not the one he flicked off Brett Lee. It was the attitude, the utter confidence. I don’t know what he’s on, but he should try more of it.

India’s fielding. Even the return catch that Bhajji dropped in his second over. That would normally have been a four against an Indian fielding side. Harbhajan nearly made it a wicket.

And Sreeshanth’s bowling. Beating Hayden for pace at least 3 out of 6 balls, bowling 4 overs for 12 runs and 2 wickets. Go, Mallu, go go!

Just for the record, the match was sweetened by pastis. On ice, with a squeeze of lemon. Very very good. Superb food cooked in-house by the people who run Eu Chu. For those who don’t know this place on Ganesh Avenue, please don’t bother. We’re more than happy to keep it to ourselves. Good Cockburn’s port after dinner, with a pipe of MacBarren, drawing well. And friends of three decades singing Tull, S&G and the Beatles while T* played the guitar. Life is good.

Good luck for Monday, boys.

****

Bombay - bloggers, blues

The far wall is a palette of greys. Picture window, framing clouds sky sea rain air road. All grey. Shades. Crows like scraps in the wind, trying to land in a tree with clumps of large vivid green leaves. Rain in the air, glimmering on the ground, on the newly paved sea-walk along Marine Drive. Across the bay, the jagged-teeth skyline of Malabar Hill rises from a tumulus of green. Three dogs strut along the sea-wall in single file. Three men in singlets run the other way. Two men, standing in a tiny red and white boat, do mysterious things among the waves. A couple under one of those bright seven-panelled school umbrellas, bright amid the grey. And a horizon where the pensive sky sighs into the sea.

****

The previous night, in the Sports Bar at Phoenix Mills, was a stark contrast. Well, perhaps not stark. Mellow, more like. In the room people came and went, but I didn't hear anybody discussing Michelangelo. Demands centred round beer and sixes. I sat in a corner with sundry Bright Young People whose numbers ebbed and flowed.

Before one Mr. Y. Singh obtruded on our collective conscious, the conversation was wide-ranging.

· The intricacies of marital and extra-marital fidelity, with special attention to shameless flirting. ('Shameless', apparently, applies only when the flirting is Directed at Men because the only fidelity worth the name exists between females. Don't ask. I didn't.)

· The natural orbits of B-school graduates. With and without lungis.

· How weird is jute? (This was repeated at intervals despite a Ban on Talking Shop.)

· How exactly does a vada cut? (By the time we left, there was a common consensus among the girl-children that the vada did cut it, thank you very much.)

· Marxism crept in, from echoes of his opening line to T.S. Eliot – 'Tom, I had no idea you were so handsome!' - to 'I wouldn't want to belong to any club that would have ME as a member.' (We refer, of course, to Groucho, not Karl.)

· The Most Formidable Girl-Child was very silent. One feared the Lull before the Storm, but apparently it was just exhaustion. (On three wheels, presumably)

· Whether Rama’s (yes, the famous bridge-builder’s) first name was Aiyyo. And whether he had an unknown brother named Aiyyiyyo. (We have no claims to serious research. Well, research perhaps, but serious?)

· The Ubiquity of Udupi. And thayeer sadam as comfort food, also why it is not available in Lower Parel.

· Ambitions (or the reality) of World Domination, since e-Bay AND Google were represented at the table.

· How men are like blogs, insofar as they can be put up (or put up with) and shut down.

· India as the world's richest source of ethnic jokes (or adhnik jauks, aythneek jokes, uthnuk joks etc.)

· Having to produce ‘virginal certificates’ for vaarrfikayishun at Anna Univaaiirrsitee.

· Who had the raspberry vodka? Umm OK, that wasn't really a TOPIC, more like a revelation. The other realisations were that A Man is as funny in person as on his blog. And that one should not comment on people who stop at nothing e.g. throw truck-loads of popcorn.

****

My first meeting was at 11. We reached early, went through Trial by Negativism, packed up and were out by quarter past. Back in my room, I should have sorted my papers and packed my bag. Instead, I sat by the window with more coffee and watched a wan sun soak into the sea-scape. Then checked out with a wistful backward look and joined the rush towards the airport. Onwards and upwards, so to speak, but with a pit-stop at the site of the previous night's carouse to make the acquaintance of a tender cow (cf: The Restaurant at the End of the Universe). Bombay gets better each time I visit.

Blur

Three weeks or thereabouts. Hectic travel, sudden summons, day-long meetings. An evening in Delhi that stretched into the wee hours, ending with the retrieval of a cell-phone. A spiral staircase up a 60-ft tower, leading to a honeymoon suite - children not permitted because the railing on the staircase has large gaps. A winding evening highway at 100 km.p.hr., the road lined and outlined with bright reflectors that put me firmly back in 1979, thrilled by the first arcade 3D car games. A would-be MP in Business Class, pulling up page after page on his laptop to explain why the Hyde Act is pernicious.

Walking down from the 8^th floor of the Chennai Secretariat, each landing is a sudden flowering of women in bright saris, flowers in their hair, seated in circles upon sheets of newspaper in front of the lifts as they eat their lunch from round steel dabbas. It seems such an orderly and bonhomous arrangement that nobody grudges the lifts being shut down.

The Hotel Dupleix in Pondicherry, stone floors and period furniture, louvred windows framing bougainvilleas and tiled roofs. The meal was superb – fresh seafood platter, fried fish crumbed in ground curry leaves, duck in a local variation of brown sauce, a risotto and lasagna (there were four of us!). The duck, in particular, was a revelation – tender, almost flaky, succulent, complemented by and not drowned in the spicy sauce. Dessert, alas, was cold, dry and crumbling. And contrary to what I had heard, there are no local wines.

Then the summons that put paid to my plans - of an evening on a roof-top in the sea-breeze, sipping from my nip of Smirnoff green apple flavour. A hurried return, three bleary high-pressure days handling a workshop and Visitors from On High, the satisfaction of not having allowed any grounds for criticism, a sense of unfairness at an unjustified rebuke but stifled in the interests of long-term peace. And preparing to party as soon as their flight took off.

This weekend is particularly sweet.

(We may return to our scheduled programming over the next few days.)

Monday blues on Tuesday afternoon

The Times of India reports (Sunday 26^th August) that the Marwari Sabha felicitated Arvind Singh Mewar, the ancestor of Maharana Pratap. Longevity!

A search for Victoria Falls on Google Earth produces Victoria Falls, Georgia, USA. You thought the Middle Kingdom was a fantastic conceit?

And listening to the Moody Blues’ When the tide comes in while driving to office, on a cloudy morning with the breeze feathering the waters, is NOT a good idea. Puts paid to work. (Especially when I view this video and reminisce on a walk along that same route some years ago. Lousy version, though.)

****

Creativity

God save the USA.

Doesn't seem anybody else should bother.

The lack of cojones

Growing up, the term ‘innings defeat’ became familiar the wrong way. With India losing. By the time India’s team started winning, in the 80s, ‘follow-on and innings defeat’ were what we hankered for. To make up for all the times Sunil Gavaskar had to stand among the ruins, to make up for all the times an India captain would lose with grace. Oh, we wanted it so bad – for INDIA to not only WIN, but to grind the opposition into the dust.

Rahul Dravid is one of the greatest batsmen to play for India. I’d go so far as to say he is one of the best batsmen ever. Definitely one of the most complete, correct and graceful right-handers, straight out of the copy-book. He looks so good with that full follow-through, I can sit and watch him play defensive strokes for hours. And a fighter. No bravado, very under-stated but one of the gutsiest and toughest men to stand in the middle of a cricket field with the India crest on his helmet. This is the one man we’d all want to be at the wicket if our lives depended on it. True Grit. Possibly India’s best batsman since 1998. Rahul Dravid, The Wall.

Rahul Dravid, the schizo. Because he’s not only a batsman, but also the captain of India. And not just any captain. One of the most limp-wristed, gutless, back-pedalling cricket captains to have ever led any country. With England 319 runs behind and almost six full sessions of play remaining, Mr. R. Dravid chose to NOT enforce the follow-on. With the cloud cover aiding swing, with the pitch still bouncy, he decided that India need to bat England out of the match. This from the man who before the first day’s play dusted off that old chestnut ‘Bat once, bat big’.

When I started writing this, India were 10 for 2. Now they are 11 for 3, with Sachin Tendulkar comprehensively bowled by Jamie Anderson off an inside edge.

Take it from the top, now.

Making England follow-on would have rubbed their noses in it. As Ravi Shastri said between the innings, it would have made a point. England’s batsmen would have been under pressure to bat long, make runs. Pressure brings mistakes. Mind-games? No thank you, Mr. Dravid would rather consult an actuary about his insurance policies. What do we have to lose?

What we have to lose, Mr. Rahul where-are-your-balls-when-we-need-them Dravid, is the match. Item, the cloud cover now would help swing. It IS helping swing, except that our bowlers aren’t getting any. Our batsmen are facing it.

Item, we lose time. India, batting now, have that margin of uncertainty as to what score will be big enough. With your no-risks policy, Mr. Dravid, our team has to bat that extra session, add those 50 extra runs, before they can declare. IF they’re not bowled out in a heap, which suddenly seems a possibility. Thus reducing the time that England have to survive through, giving our bowlers less time to knock them over.

Item, the other team gets a target to aim for. Once they know what the final Indian score is, they can always pace their innings. It’s no longer about survival. Hell, the way things are going now, they might even have a chance of winning it. If they do, Mr. Dravid, I hope you go on the Queen’s next Birthday Honours List. It would be the least they could do for the man who single-handedly revived the English cricket team.

Item, we lose the high, we lose the mental edge. Have you heard of the killer instinct, Mr. Dravid? Do you know what it is to be ruthless? Ask a man named Steve Waugh. Hell, ask Ravi Shastri, he’s the closest we have to an Aussie mind. What did Ravi say, Mr. D? ‘If you’ve got your man under water, hold him there. Why give him a chance to breathe?’ (Incidentally, Ian Chappell says the same.) What you’ve done, Mr. D, is bring him up and give him the kiss of life. What next, an oxygen cylinder? Balanced on your head while YOU stand underwater?

Yes, you had a good day yesterday. You called the changes, put men in the right positions. You have a brain, even a cricketing brain, no doubt about that. I don’t agree that it was inspired captaincy yesterday – for example, Tendulkar should have bowled earlier, bowled more – but it was good captaincy. Where you lose out, Mr. Dravid, is on leadership. Captaincy isn’t about strategy alone. It’s about heart. That jingle they play with your team colours, have you ever seen it? ‘Mind and body, heart and soul’. You have all that as a batsman, Mr. Dravid, even though you’re going through a bad patch now. As a batsman, you’re a stud. As a captain, you lack half of that. You lack the fire. As a captain, Mr. Rahul Dravid, you’re a wuss.

This was the chance you had to win big, Mr. Dravid. This was your chance to ride into the sunset with that big overseas win on your saddle-bow. You blew it. England may or may not win. A draw would be welcome to both teams now. That’s your contribution. Follow-on and innings defeat? Not against you, Mr. D. From a position where India were running hot, teeth bared, muscles itching, you have brought them back to being journeymen. When Kumble got Monty, we thought there could only be two results – India winning, or a draw. In true sporting spirit, you’ve opened the door for an England win. Bully for you.

Do us a favour, Mr. Dravid. When this is over, get some testosterone injections. And oh, a left brain implant might be a good idea too.

****

Update: I may have been just a little unfair. Apparently Zaheer Khan had a thigh strain. Not much sense bowling again when the spearhead is blunted. Drat. Nothing rankles like a wasted rant!

Weirdos again

There IS something about Delhi. Full-on Weirdo Watch. Like the guy who sits in the lobby of my hotel, next to the elevators. I see him sitting there at least once on every visit. And always, ALWAYS, dictating into a Nokia Communicator. This last time, I realised he had THREE of the damn phones – one in his hand and two on the table next to his open laptop. Except that he looks more like a deadbeat than a tycoon. Overwashed T-shirt, rumpled slacks, a salt-and-pepper stubble. Not a designer stubble either, just a scruffy one. But then there are those phones.

Or the old gent at the airport (Delhi airport again) in his white cotton suit. Which is OK in summer, kind of old-world charm. My grandfather had a white suit. Only this gent wore a RED tie with it. THIS LOUD. Weirdoso grandoso was the fact that inside the collar and the tie, he wore a red silk band. Embroidered zari kind of thingy, a little like a cravat but much narrower. And on his feet, white Reebok basketball shoes. Ye gods.

The fat Bong on the flight wasn’t exactly weird, just gross. I can commiserate with obesity, but to get as fat as this guy you just have to be a greedy slob. I know, it could be a glandular disorder, it could be depression. But at the end of the day he’s still a greedy pig who can’t keep food out of his mouth.

And he stank. And his clothes rucked up obscenely. And he kept turning round to talk to the guy in the seat behind him. And he had bad breath and huffed like a grampus. I pitied the guy next to him – Fat Slob was in the aisle seat, I (not-SO-fat slob?) was by the window and the guy in the middle had the worst deal.

The weird part was that, when they served the meal, Fat Slob drew a polythene pack out of his pocket and carefully emptied the food into that. For why?!

Dilemma

After lunch today, I sat in front of my computer and sniggered for 15 mins. Then I laughed for half an hour.

Then I sat and cried because I can't make up my mind whether I'd rather be Chuck Norris or Vin Diesel.

(Blogger has been warned that if either of them logs on, that 'What is a Blog' widget will be roundhouse kicked into the NASA parking lot. The one that orbits Pluto.)

Disappooooiinted!

"Take it away, I ordered a double cheeseburger and fries!"

Was Titian ever in the American Mid-West?
(Enlightened via Bill Bryson)

Double Bill

I appreciate the written word more than the visual medium of cinema, so it's nice when a film is structured like a novel. It's even nicer when the film in question is much better than one expected. I may have liked it all the more in comparison with the director's previous attempt, so you are free to discount my praise hereafter.

Anjan Dutta directed Burrah Din (or Bada Din, though that spelling is not advisable in Calcutta) 9 years ago. It sucked. So I expected The Bong Connection to be another patchy mélange. Surprise. This is a well-scripted, neatly structured, thoroughly enjoyable film with excellent performances from an ensemble cast.

Dutta portrays Bangali quirks and foibles in Houston and in Hati Bagan. His observations, from the standard drunk in the probashi party to the para layabout who’s into ‘contracting’, are acute and often hilarious The story tracks two young Bengalis moving in opposite directions, as one tries to grow anew from family roots in Calcutta and the other learns to fly in foreign skies.This could easily have been a clever little linear docu-drama with no soul. Instead, it tracks their respective arcs as they cross in mid-air and even closes the circle by film's end. Anjan Dutta's script drives the film even better than his direction, with only two weak spots ^[1] in over two hours.

Not that the direction is weak. There's an interlude when the main characters, half of them in Shantiniketan and the other half in Texas, dance to the rhythm of a remix (yes, but it works!) of Tagore's Pagla hawa. It could have been kitschy, or sunk under the weight of reverence. Instead of which, it rises and soars, lifting the sails of imagination like Tagore's "frenzied wind". Or a chapter from Kerouac. Even Raima Sen looks natural and not her usual precious self. Now THAT is quite an achievement. In fact, Dutta extracts good performances from even the noted non-performers (no names) and some great cameos from Victor Banerjee and Shouvik Kundagrami. The supporting cast are solid and Peeya Mukherjee blazes quality in a comparatively ill-defined role.

Neil Dutta’s music is surprisingly good for a first-timer. Not every track, but the baaul tracks are wonderful. My friend criticized the under-use of Soumitra Chatterjee, now one of the grand old men of Bangla cinema. He appears in two scenes – as a paralytic old man struck silent by a stroke. I, on the contrary, found this the neatest part of the film, the under-stated tribute to Ray and his oeuvre (echoed by the background score). Soumitra was the original Apu, ‘Opoarajito’. As his character dies, Porombroto’s character, also named Apu, returns to his native shores. A closing of the circle and a reaffirmation of faith. A satisfying experience.

^[1] Once when Porombroto and Peeya fight in front of his apartment, and again in one of the scenes with Hasan the taxi driver.

The other film I saw recently was Partner. Don’t gasp. I loved it, and not just because of Govinda’s innate timing. This film works on many levels. Much has been written about the chemistry between the film’s lead pair – Salman and Govinda. It’s there and it drives the film, but one of the stars is not on screen.

Sanjay Chhel wrote the script. He has been a favourite ever since the days of Yeh jo hai Zindagi, right through Daud and Yes Boss. If the two leading men sound good on-screen, it’s because of the lines Chhel gives them. Camp, outrageous, but so inane they’re good. I mean, Jahan guru wahan chela, ayee milan ki bela is almost as over-the-top as Owe koi nahin jee, hum toh bus underwear-underwear khel rahe they (from that other Dhawan-Govinda romp, Jodi No. 1).

There’s not much by way of a story or plot, no matter that the basic premise is lifted from Hitch. The intermittent ensemble numbers are faintly irritating. Rajpal Yadav is too loud and wasted in a little digression as Chhota Don. Katrina Kaif is pretty and vapid. Lara Dutta doesn’t have much of a role either except to flesh out, as a single mother, the acknowledgement of changing times. Unlike Katrina, however, she does look like a person and not just a pretty face. I’d do coffee with her any day.

The soul of the film glimmers in the scene where Salman as the ‘love guru’ tries to teach ‘bewaqoof Bhaskar’ to dance. Others have mentioned Govinda jiving to Sarkai le khatiya while Salman tries to do a coolio to Just chill. (This is one of a series of in-jokes, like Salman’s inability to do a film fully clad, that I enjoyed enormously.) The giveaway comes just afterwards. Salman walks out, Govinda starts a crazy hop and Just chill morphs into Cheel cheel chilla ke, from Kishore Kumar’s Half Ticket.

This, I think, is the essence of the film. Kishore Kumar in Half Ticket was a bizarre, unpredictable streak of comic energy. The film had a ridiculous premise that was actually irrelevant except for some sight gags. Like Kalidas’ 1962 romp, David Dhawan doesn’t mess with a good thing. He has a script with some good gags, he has a lead pair who crackle together. He lets them loose, rolls the camera as they freak out, and waits for the good bits to fall in place. And you know what, it works. Full-too time-pass. So what if it isn’t Blow-Out?!

**** ****

Curioser and ...

Yesterday … a very polite letter from a Mr. J*. “Wonder if you remember, we’ve met a few times, hope you are well, I happened to take a photograph of your wife and you, here it is” (framed, even). Very nice of him, I’m sure.

Except that the couple in the photo are total strangers to me.

****

Today … a colleague retires, a ‘farewell’ thingy is organised. Another colleague rises to ‘speak on the occasion’. In totally mangled Bangla, with an Oriya accent as thick as peanut butter, he expounds upon (i) how he’s looking forward to retiring himself so that people can say nice things about HIM (ii) what Ouillem Blacko (William Blake, gerrit?) said about tigers (iii)‘the bourne whence no traveler returns’ (the man is retiring, not DYING!) (iv) how the study of philosophy is a prerequisite for government service (or the natural outcome?)

And all this while I sit at the head of the tale, nodding gravely and occasionally making faces to disguise the storms of laughter that roil my abs.

****

Who needs marijuana?!

Things to do

1. Cut out about 80% of my Bloglines feeds.

2. Take Bloglines off my Bookmarks.

3. Block Bloglines.

4. Get a life.

... and smells of steaks in passage-ways ..

This is about an evening last December or thereabouts, dug out from 'Drafts' because of a wunnerful time last Wednesday evening.

A non-evening in a Delhi non-winter. With the up-side of finally meeting the Babu, whose writing I like enough to qualify as a bona fide … ummm, fan, even. And meeting again the Babu’s Other Half, who is intimidatingly sharp, depressingly cool and had minor rock star status in Cal some decades ago. Worth it for that alone, not counting the bonus of seeing in the flesh (rather more of it than one recalled, actually) a certain celebrity stripper from the Ananda spa.

Raj Kamal Jha has written another book. His third, and apparently a good one. His first was such a stylistic miscegenation – Amit Chaudhuri sets up Arundhati Ray (you can already make out I didn’t like Jha’s first, can’t you? Go on, say it, I’m biased!) on a blind date with John Irving. Awful stuff from a good writer. But “Fireproof” has been appreciated by Learned Persons who Understand Literature, so I shall buy it and hope it’s not, as the name suggests, a future Night Shyamalan script.

Said book was launched at the India International Centre, where one rolled up in search of like-minded company. And soothed internal issues about freeloading by sipping only soda. Such restraint. No wait, I had three fish fingers – should I send Picador a cheque? I knew precisely two people there. The Babu, once we were introduced, was the third. (And a bit of a disappointment, because my mental image of somebody plump, squat, square-jawed and shawl-wrapped was totally off the mark.) There was a BYT who led me to the venue, but sadly enough, she did not stop to chit-chat once we were in.

Chatted with the Dilton for a while, while he pointed out in quick succession (a) a poet (b) Ruchir Joshi and (c) Kanika Gehlot. Hysteria-inducing account of the reaction in Delhi to her tell-all book, but if even DD does not remember the name, it must have been quite awful. (DD remembers everything. Or at least used to, when he still quizzed. OK, qualified statement – he remembered everything as long as he was stoned. Now do you see why he was a rock star on the quiz circuit?) Kanika Gehlot needs to see an orthodontist, no no, not SEE in that way, CONSULT, as in use the services of. The ORTHODONTIST’S services, boys and girls, let’s not be smutty here. I don’t know her from Eve, but I remember a piece she wrote some months ago. Nasty piece of work.

In the meantime, one PYT markedly pushed off from DD’s side the moment I hove into view; another rushed up to us and breathlessly asked if she could “borrow a cigarette”. Say what? Borrow? What does she do, hand back the stub? This cigarette thingy was repeated in various versions over the next 20 minutes (which was all I stayed, since I ended up with nobody to talk to). I spent some time in a wicker chair, sipping my soda and watching the fauna of literate Delhi.

A young lady looked at me, whispered in her swain’s ear, looked at me again. Did I resemble somebody she’d seen on a post-office wall? No, I thought I knew the reason. Sure enough, she came over and asked for a cigarette. What is it with Delhi, is this the “khoo” thing these days?

Then I got tired of it all and went back to my room and slept fitfully, with unpleasant dreams that woke me up but vanished from my memory.

**** ****

In-flight

Interesting company on my flight to Delhi yesterday. Embarrassing too. I squirmed in my seat while a (supposedly) venerable Additional Director-General of police discussed, in a Very Loud Voice,

(a) Intimate details of his brother-in-law’s anatomy (said b-i-l has been rechristened Long Doodoong Doong, need I say more?)

(b) The unfortunate case of B- B-, until recently a feared Superintendent of Police, who made two mistakes. One, he was unwary during a dark night in camp, resulting in an Intimate Encounter that was worse than piles. Secondly, he actually went and cried to his colleagues about it. Any day now some gangster under interrogation may smirk and ask him whether he’s still sore.

(c) Internal memos (on yellow Post-It pads) about the appropriate place to file the proceedings of a long meeting chaired by an Even More Senior Policeman. Said (very rude) memos being circulated during the meeting. I don’t remember having done that since college.

(d) Graphic descriptions of the appearance and morals of certain senior police officers and their political patrons, with glosses on their past lives. I shuddered.

(e) The digestive problems of an academically-minded officer whose room was 300 feet up the hill in Katesar Castle and who would be perennially caught short around half eleven. Whereupon he would borrow this ADG’s room key for the necessary relief. Until the day ADG unscrewed the bolt on the bathroom door and invited half a dozen friends to watch the performance.

And a little gem … A.N.Jha Block in the Academy, one night in October of 197_. Two officers in training, one in the IPS and the other in the IAS, are meditating in the privacy of their (shared) room. One of them is just back from Delhi and has been Given Some LSD. Wherefore they have popped a pill apiece and, some time having passed, are comparing notes.

‘Do you see a pinkish haze?’

‘Music … music would be awesome now.’

‘Right, I can feel this HUGE high coming.’

More time passes. The haze – pinkish or otherwise – does not deepen. No psychedelic houris or dancing dragons, no learning to fly.

‘It’s not all that strong, is it?’

‘You think we should have another one each?’

‘F*%#@, what company sells it packaged like this anyway?’

The foil pack is examined with bleary eyes.

‘Vitamin C supplement – Celin 500 mg’.

Pink haze indeed.

**** ****

The week that was

In no particular order … tennis, Delhi, quizzing, gormandising, hating my job, and a truly awful jamboree.

Dr. Naveen Jayakumar of Chennai came up to Cal to run a quiz at the Saturday Club. I haven’t enjoyed a quiz quite so much in years. Quizzing is mostly a puerile exercise, driven by the deep-seated juvenile urge to put one’s fingers beside the ears and waggle them while intoning in nasal fashion ‘I know more than YOU know, nyaah nyaah nyaah!’ Taking it beyond the capitals and dates and quotations of classroom quizzes run by bored teachers, there’s the challenge. It’s not easy to set a quiz that is interesting, informative and balanced. Balance is important, participants are quick to curse inequity in the standard of questions.

The best quiz questions, of course, are those that can be worked out. Dr. Jayakumar’s quiz just about made the transition from information to knowledge. He had one beauty that linked the father of the Virgin Mary to the modern dollar ^[1]. Go figure. To cite another one of his questions as an example of work-outability –

“In 1952 K.R. Khardekar, Principal of Raja Ram College in Kolhapur, made a sacrifice in the cause of Indian sport that has gone sadly unsung. It should be lauded now and henceforth – but what was it?”

The clues are there. 1952, an Olympic year. Kolhapur, Maharashtra, ’52 Olympics … leading to Khashaba Dadasaheb Jadhav, bronze medallist in wrestling (bantamweight) at Helsinki, India’s first individual medallist since Norman Pritchard. All that remained was to figure out the sacrifice, and there a faint memory stirred. Khardekar had mortgaged his house to raise funds for Jadhav to participate. More details here.

By the way, guess who won the quiz? Gergovia, it’s Gergovia all over again!

****

Sunday I was sulking in Delhi, for no particular reason other than having to spend a holiday away from VSP. Fortunately, my preparations for Monday’s ordeal were over in time to catch the second set of one of the all-time great Wimbledon finals. The third set was an even better contest. Foot-speed, power, touch, shot-making, sheer grit. All on display from both players. You could sense Federer’s frustration with the way Nadal just kept coming at him, his occasional bewilderment at the loop of Rafa’s top-spin. The speed and precision of the racquet-head when Rafa connects on that forehand cross-court, that’s a muscular magic. Matched only by the precision of Roger’s serve.

The fourth set raised the bar. Nadal broke twice, raced ahead. And FedEx decided he had nothing to lose, just went for broke. Shorter rallies but oh, what sublime finishes. Two-all as they went into the decider and – fortunately for Roger and his fans – FedEx’s berserker mood took him through. He was coming at the net like a Viking out of a longboat, you could see the red in his eyes and the sweat-froth under the winged helmet. That fine fury, and his serve, took him to Title #5. It was awesome tennis in terms of the physicality, the endurance, gladiators slugging it out and waiting for the mental disintegration, the fatigue that leaves the opening for the kill. FedEx broke through, but it gets closer every year. Next year it could be Rafa. And he’ll be only 21 years old.

****

One of those National Day celebrations (you can work out which one, from the month) turned out to be traumatic. More fool me for making a concession to the dress code (‘Lounge Suit / National Dress’) and donning a jacket. The survival instinct prompted a tab collar (unbuttoned) instead of a tie, or else I might have had to be carried out of there feet-first. The banquet hall was large, good wine flowed, there were some excellent cheeses on offer. But there were about 700 people in a space meant for 400, there was a milling mass of oiks three-deep at the bar, and fighting one’s way to the cheese counter was like the Battle of Helm’s Deep. Dinner? People were actually queued up! I found an occasional table, lit a pensive cigarillo and thought deep dark thoughts. Only to be assailed by a primal yowling from the dais – the foreign contingent were expressing their solidarity with India by belting out ‘An Evening in Paris’. Totally off-key and out of tune, but backed by 5000 watts. My nerve broke, I gathered in the Better Half and bolted for the door.

****

Which led to an altogether more pleasant part of the evening. Thanks to this fine young man (who is an amazingly solicitous host) and the hospitality of his parents, we were wined (vodka with peach schnapps, highly recommended), dined (of which more anon) and regaled. In addition, Fine Young Man bestowed upon me riches beyond the dreams of avarice – Hitchcock, the Goon Show, Monty Python, Robin Williams and something called Weeds. Now I find I need to download codecs to play them. One perseveres.

****

Glorious excess. Friday dinner, Russell dhaba. Daal tarka with slathers of butter, chicken bharta, mutton butter masala (NO tomato puree, another reason to love them). Lassi and chai for the ladies. Saturday lunch, Mocambo. Our set menu. Devilled crab, chilli chicken (which is an entirely different experience at Mocambo), fish meuniere, chicken paprika and fish a la Diana. Of course we slept in the car on the way back! Saturday dinner (mentioned in passing, above) was gargantuan ilish and rui. Sunday lunch was the buffet at Oh Calcutta. The potol malai curry, rui shorshey and chingri chichingey deserve special mention. There is a special debauched satisfaction derived from indulging in excess.

Goodbye, lithe and limber Orsino. I fear I shall have to resign myself to being Falstaffian ^[2].

****

^{[1] -} Silver mines in Bohemia were named after the father of the Virgin, St. Joachim. The valley came to be known as Joachimsthaler or Joachim's valley. Eventually, coins struck there in 1518 were also referred to as Joachimsthalers. This led to the more common thaler. Which, as we know, is the origin of the word 'dollar'.

^{[2] -} Hence the footnotes at the slightest excuse.

Trussed

A supremely supercilious friend pointed me towards this debate in the Guardian. Much joy comes.

No prizes for guessing which side I’m on. Or at least which side I like to imagine I’m on.

Brian May * ...

... be entitled to his view, but it's not always about fat-bottomed girls.

Some slim ladies are just so hot.


P.S. - Kaku, more on the other blog. Helpful pipples, I have a koshchens there. Pliss to haylpe?

* - thanks to llcoolj in the commentspace for pointing out my dementia.

Octowussy

I have been tagged by a Large Lady with an Even Larger Stick. So I acquiesce (which could be the sequel to that Montgomery Clift movie, know which one I mean? Ask Amit). I have hitherto tried to keep this blog free of issues that are entirely personal (travelogues don’t count) and put personal stuff on my other blog. In view of the Large Stick, however, I shall cross-post this (oo-er, that does sound like a Serious Blogger. Next you know, I’ll have figured out how to put up a sticky – no, not fingers, Prof, just a ‘sticky’)

You know, 8 terrible things about me, passing it on to 8 people etc. (It’s also a no-brainer post, ups my frequency) Here goes.

1. I have my own eccentricity about how I climb stairs. No, I won’t tell you what it is.

2. I cannot get through a day without talcum and deo / cologne. Just can’t. Comes of being a Bong, methinks.

3. I’m anal about what I wear to office or to a formal do. Clothes have to be ironed, shoes have to be polished. (Haven’t worn lace-ups for several years now, who wants to bend down if it can be avoided?) And matching socks. Which somebody Already Knows. But that’s about it for my fashion-sense, except that I never ever do the standard fuglies like brown-with-black or casual shirt with formal trousers. The USA was traumatic that way. Folks on campus just didn’t seem to care.

4. When I was about 9, I learnt Kathak for a year or so. At Children’s Little Theatre under the Dhakuria flyover. The basic step was ­­TA-dhin-dhin-na, TA-dhin-dhin-na and the trick was to start the second cycle on the same foot as the 4^th step of the first cycle. All very easy when done slowly, but when it speeded up I’d lose track and just stand there drumming my feet furiously on the floor. At the ‘Annual Function’ I was carefully hidden in the back row. I saw a photo of the performance – a sea of small overweight Bangali brats with their baby fat quivering in quite disgusting fashion. I refused to go from the next week. But the library was nice. Very nice. I remember I was there when an earthquake hit Calcutta and a large bound collection of Life boogied slowly off my table.

5. A lot of people (including international cricketers, to judge from Cricinfo quoting Ryan Sidebottom) collect those miniature toiletries from hotel rooms. I go a step further. I swipe the really small face towels. (Never more than one per visit.) They’re just perfect for when I play squash, or in the car on a hot day when the AC takes a little time to kick in.

6. My very first appearance on the big screen is something I’m yet to live down. Never again shall I do something that can prompt a “Saaar, I saw you in that phillim yesterday (smirk smirk) Bhery good acting you hab done, Saaar (turn away to hide growing grin)”. Gah. I am, however, open to offers of roles as Suave Villain who Quite Undoes Beauteous Heroine (Cath Z-J or Winona Ryder for choice, though Chitrangada Singh would do) ^[1]

7. When I’m really serious about something, I can only communicate in English, as on the rare occasions when I’m well and truly mad. Which can be stupid and totally pointless. I remember being icy-cold and cutting with a sweaty political muscle-man on a station platform. I hope the rage showed through.

8. I can pinpoint the exact day I realised I’d grown old. 31^st December 1996, the lawns of the CC&FC half an hour before midnight. Any number of PYTs in Very Little Dresses, and instead of leching in healthy fashion, my first reaction was ‘Those poor kids will catch their death of cold!’ The bottoms of my trousers rolled, I fear.

Tag eight people? Wouldn’t make a diff, because they’re not likely to drop by here. Consider yourself tagged.

Hope this keeps The Stick off.

^[1] I'm also open to being the Straight Guy who is Quite Undone by the Devious Seductress – preferrably played by Jamie Lee Curtis. Or Mallika Sarabai.

**** ****

That city

A swelling plume of smoke links a spindly chimney to the blanket of clouds above. I can see the light-towers of the Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium, round-shouldered against the horizon. A crow perches on a nondescript cable looped from tree to tree on the other side of the road, looks around, clears its throat and emits a tentative caw. Concrete piles emerge from a sea of green, shaking the foliage off their shoulders, blinking.

Damn this meeting. I’ve woken far too early. From a bizarre dream, my uber-boss berating me for not getting the right break-up of dahi vadas for the balance sheet, the Finance Ministry is bound to object. This could point to anxiety about the AGM today, coupled with regret over dining on an insubstantial Caesar salad last night. But don’t ask me, I only dreamed it.

The clouds on my right are turning pink. Then … I remember an Amar Chitra Katha cover, young Hanuman leaping at the sun. He’d have to be quick to catch this one. Huge, orange, lowering, it rolls above the horizon and springs into the cloud-bank, a minute’s worth (or two) of colours flaming like a ‘70s Bolly wood poster. Nice entry, bud. Hope you can top that when you go off-stage in the evening.

Headed towards the airport. The AGM went off surpassing smooth, the proceedings have been packaged and presented for approval. I can afford to relax and hitch a lazy eye over the car window. For the second evening in a row, I wonder at the greenery of Hauz Khas. It must be a magic jungle in the winter. I should … but I know that I won’t venture beyond Nehru Park.

There ARE things about this city that I like. It’s just that the unpleasantness takes front and centre in my memories. Must work on that.

Meanwhile, the sun that tortured me this afternoon has skulked off behind the clouds. No airport sunset. Welsher.

Hooloovoo?

The trouble with non-specific depression is that you don't know WHY you're depressed.

It's worse when you're supposed to be an airhead who doesn't get depressed anyway. Nobody believes you can be depressed.

Including yourself.

Sucks.

Those rooms

His face gleamed with a thin sheen of sweat. Behind him was a wall, green-painted, with a crack running diagonally up to one corner. I remember that wall, that room. Or its twin. The camera did not move from the BDO’s face, but I know that just outside the camera frame there is a warped wooden window with bars across it, and somewhere above that window there lurks a fat gecko. A foot from the ceiling is a concrete shelf piled with old registers, receipt-books, booklets on seed-kits and polio eradication, a small trunk once used for cash, two mysterious polythene bags slick with some kind of grease, and a set of tubes and iron thingies that were apparently part of a tube-well assembly.

I know those rooms. I used to hate them. The smell of damp would mingle with the smell of sweat and the smell of hopelessness as I fought to stay awake through one futile meeting after another. That was when I started smoking, each carefully-spaced cigarette a milestone, something to alleviate the stupefying monotony of the working day. The setting sun would bring fat Murmu with his jeep, a promise of deliverance that speeded up my ‘disposal of files’. Sometimes the lights would go off as evening fell. Then ego would battle with irritation – should I clear the whole damn bunch while mosquitoes pinged in my ears and sweat trickled uneasily inside my shirt? Or should I ride off in the jeep with one foot out on the running-board to catch the breeze, leaving the files to moulder till the next day?

For the first few kilometres of the homeward journey we would rush down the tunnel of the jeep’s headlights. Far out beyond the silent dark of the fields there would be scattered lights, marking houses and huts where unknown families blew conch-shells for the evening prayer or gathered round a flickering television. But the road itself would be dark until we reached the highway. Once across the highway, the station road was crowded and lit almost to the point of brightness. At the station I would lounge in the jump-seat or potter around buying fruit, perhaps smoke my last cigarette of the day while I waited for the Better Half to appear, one of the hundred-odd dark shapes streaming off the 7:10 from the city.

Years later, there would be other rooms, other drives, other days meandering into tired sticky evenings that itched under the skin. There would be others in the BDO's chair, some young and earnest, some old and secure in the knowledge of their own limited options. I like to think that the memories of my three months as BDO shaped my interactions with them. I hope the pity did not show.

We don't know when we're lucky

I had a beef about flying from Calcutta to Ahmedabad. There is no conveniently timed direct flight. I have to fly via Delhi or Jaipur and then hustle to catch the direct flight back in the evening. To put that in perspective, it’s more than 3 hrs. if I take the hopping flight.

Now my friend V (of the Laphroaig evening mentioned earlier) is visiting again. He’s moved to Portland, Oregon (from Brazil – the man is mad!). If HE needs to fly to New York, he has to change at LA. To put THAT in perspective, it’s 3 hrs. to LA and then a further 5 hrs. plus to NYC. Add transit time and it's 12 hrs. on an average.

I shan’t crib any more.

Just saying.

Eh?!

WTF moment of the day –

Jency Jacob, CNN-IBN correspondent, somewhere on the Western Express Highway – ‘So we are here … traffic is not moving … there is a bus full of foreigners here … they have come from abroad … ’ (Brilliant, that. His eagle eye immediately discerns that these are NOT foreigners from Ghatkopar) Climbs aboard the bus and sticks his mike in the face of an elderly man. ‘Sir, can you please tell us where you are from and where you are going?’

Elderly man, with great grace in the face of adversity (also with euphonious accent) - ‘We are from Spain and we were going to Goa, but our flight was at 2:35 p.m. so now we are looking for a hotel ….’

Jency Jacob, apropos nothing-at-all – ‘Sir, will all of you please sing us a song?’

Ainh?!?!

(They DID sing. The entire busload. Gerfuck!)

(This is the channel that's ripped off Billy Joel's We didn't start the fire for their promo. We should have known.)